


Coming Back to Life

by marrieddorks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunken Kissing, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrieddorks/pseuds/marrieddorks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica and Ashley were back by the time the last word rang, fresh drinks in hand, but Sam wasn’t paying any attention.  He remembered this song.  It came out on Pink Floyd’s 1994 album, The Division Bell.  Dean had bought it the day it came out and listened to the entire thing multiple times that very day.  Sam had been eleven years old at the time and tired of all the rock songs that Dean and their dad would play.  Well, that was partially a lie.  Yes, he was tired of a majority of the songs with the same sounding driving chords, banging drums, long guitar solos, high, almost yelling, voices, but there we some aspects he liked.  He enjoyed soft rock because he could really listen to the lyrics, feel them resonate within himself, and hear Dean’s off-key singing clearer than he could with other rock songs.  Soft rock was also guaranteed to make him sleep when he was restless on those long car rides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Back to Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone :) This is my first true time attempting to write Wincest and, of course, it ended up as some angsty Stanford!Era Wincest. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy. I hope to keep writing about Sam and Dean and get a better feel for how I should go about their characters.

“C’mon, Sam!” Brady yelled. “Get your ass out here and let’s go!”

“Dude, I told you, I’m not going,” Sam responded, sticking his head out of the doorway. Brady’s eyes widened comically big and he barged into Sam’s room, arms out to his sides in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me? What do you mean you’re not going?”

“I told you yesterday and the day before that,” Sam answered, unfazed, as he pulled off his collared shirt and replaced it with a worn and faded Stanford tee, “I have stuff to do, like my stats and Latin. And I don’t even like parties so it’s not like I’m going to be missing anything anyway.”

“Actually, you’ll be missing a ton of stuff. This isn’t just any party, Sam. This is a party at Ashley Jordan’s house that you were invited to by Jessica Moore!” He took a step forward and put both his hands on Sam’s shoulders before shaking him. “Jessica freaking Moore! You can’t not go. You’re, like, the guest of honor!”

“There are going to be hundreds of people there, Brady, I highly doubt they’ll notice if I’m there or not,” Sam said, trying to sound certain of himself, but his resolve was breaking at the thought of Jessica and her dark blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and the ever-so-light smattering of freckles on her face and – “but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out, I guess.”

“Yes!” Brady cheered, fist pumping in the air. “Hurry up and change so we can go!” Sam laughed at Brady’s blatant enthusiasm and shut his door, once again pulling off his shirt and replacing it with a somewhat-nicer one.

It was obvious where the party was the moment they got close to Constanzo Street, just off of campus. Cars littered the road, most parked haphazardly and some even in the grass, while students milled in and out of yards and a house just at the end of the street. By the way they all were stumbling, the drinking had started a bit early. Bass from speakers were lightly vibrating the ground below and continued to gain strength the closer they got to Ashley’s home. Sam briefly wondered how the cops hadn’t been called yet and, the part of himself that he couldn’t shake, kept his eyes open as these sort of situations were perfect hunting grounds for all types of monsters.

After walking down the sidewalk and sidestepping the few already-passed-out people, they made it to the front door where Jessica and Ashley stood, still greeting the incoming guests.

“Sam!” Jessica almost gasped, green eyes gaining that twinkle in them as she looked up. Her face was slightly flushed from alcohol consumption, making the freckles on them standout even more. “I’m so glad you made it,” she finished softly.

“Yeah, me too,” he answered just as quietly, head ducking down to hide his eyes beneath the long strands of brown hair. As they were ushered inside and drinks were practically thrown in their hands, Brady nudged Sam with his shoulder and mouthed an arrogant ‘I told you!’ before sliding his own arm around Ashley’s giggling form.

They stood there yelling over the loud music and even occasionally danced, though Sam did his best to avoid being dragged to the dancefloor at all costs. The music blaring from the speakers was a perfect playlist of the biggest hits at the moment, like “Drop it like it’s Hot,” “American Idiot,” “Hollaback Girl,” “She Will be Loved,” “Yeah!” and even “The First Cut is the Deepest.” Brady and Ashley were quickly on their way to being completely inebriated with alcohol and Sam and Jessica were getting some awesome entertainment as they watched their friends get drunker and drunker, singing along to the music at the top of their lungs and falling over as they attempted to dance.

Sam wasn’t a big drinker in situations like this, so he spent most of his time just people-watching. He got a little distracted when Jessica took out the ponytail holder in her hair and those dark blonde curls cascaded down her back and framed her face like a golden halo. When he opened his mouth to comment on it or compliment her in some way, the music changed to “Hey Ya!” by Outkast and Jessica and Ashley squealed, their shrills louder than the volume of the music, and rushed to the dancefloor without looking back. As the floor broke out into wild dancing Brady slid over so his shoulder was pressed right against Sam’s side and he grinned brightly, pointing at the jumping bodies of Jessica and Ashley on the floor.

“Great party, huh?!” he shouted.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” Sam agreed with a smile.

“You and Jessica are really hitting it off,” Brady continued to leer. Sam nodded and looked back to the floor as the song came to an end. As the final “Hey ya!”s faded off, everyone began to cheer, a thin layer of sweat shining on their foreheads from the multitude of people and the vigorous dancing. Sam watched as Jessica and Ashley laughed, heads thrown back, and turned to weave their way to where he and Brady were still standing.

While they were still making their way through the throng of people, a slow droning of a synth could barely be heard above the chatter. Suddenly an electric guitar joined in, its notes played clean and slow. Sam strained to listen, a sense of familiarity hitting him, but he just couldn’t place it. When the first word sounded out, however, Sam immediately knew what the song was and his throat tightened as the first verse progressed.

_Where were you when I was burned and broken_

_While the days slipped by from my window watching_

_And where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless_

_‘Cause the things you say and the things you do surround me_

Jessica and Ashley were back by the time the last word rang, fresh drinks in hand, but Sam wasn’t paying any attention. He remembered this song. It came out on Pink Floyd’s 1994 album, The Division Bell. Dean had bought it the day it came out and listened to the entire thing multiple times that very day. Sam had been eleven years old at the time and tired of all the rock songs that Dean and their dad would play. Well, that was partially a lie. Yes, he was tired of a majority of the songs with the same sounding driving chords, banging drums, long guitar solos, high, almost yelling, voices, but there we some aspects he liked. He enjoyed soft rock because he could really listen to the lyrics, feel them resonate within himself, and hear Dean’s off-key singing clearer than he could with other rock songs. Soft rock was also guaranteed to make him sleep when he was restless on those long car rides.

The other instruments had joined in right as David Gilmoure’s voice let out the word “sun” and Sam was thrown back into his favorite memory involving this song.

It had been years after the album’s release and Sam was sixteen years old. On a cold January day in the middle-of-nowhere Montana, Sam and Dean were alone in a cabin, celebrating Dean’s twentieth birthday with an array of beer, Scotch, and Dean’s favorite whiskey. John had joined their Uncle Bobby on a rougarou hunt in North Dakota and decided to leave Dean and Sam back in a safe house, claiming that four of them hunting this thing would be too much. Personally Sam thought it was John’s way of making up for missing Dean’s birthday again. Sam had already bought some things for the small celebration and he wanted to commemorate the occasion instead of brushing it off, something that seemed to happen to all of their birthdays every year.

_While you were hanging yourself on someone else’s words_

_Dying to believe in what you heard_

_I was staring straight into the shining sun_

Sam had woken up early that morning and lit the fire in the wood-burning fireplace, hoping to get the ice cold cabin a little warmer for them both. Then he made his way to the tiny kitchen, his socked feet padding along the wood floor, and started making breakfast with the ingredients he had, luckily, bought a few days earlier. He had yawned as he started brewing the coffee, hand coming to run through his wild bedhead hair. While that had been going on he started mixing together the pancake batter, some of it splattering on the softly worn AC/DC shirt that belonged to Dean, and getting the skillet hot enough to fry the bacon. It didn’t take too long, but when he had been finished, the cabin was comfortably warm and smelled heavenly.

He remembers, quite vividly, what he had been thinking as he was cooking that morning. The relationship he had with Dean wasn’t quite clear to him them. They had crossed so many lines up to that point – Dean had kissed him three years prior, on the Fourth of July when they set that field ablaze. Then nothing for years…not until Sam got to high school and Dean saw a girl kiss Sam under the bleachers right after school. Sam could still almost see the red glint fill Dean’s eyes as he marched forward and let out a babble of words, ones Sam couldn’t remember that well, but were effective enough to scare away the girl and leave the arguments of protest stuck in Sam’s throat as Dean pushed him against the metal beams of the bleachers and slotted their mouths together. Then there was nothing again…and that seemed to be the pattern they had undoubtedly set for themselves and Sam simply didn’t know what to make of it anymore. But no matter what his relationship with Dean was, one thing he had been certain of was that he loved Dean more than any other person he had ever met.

When Dean woke up to the smell of food in the air, Sam couldn’t stop the grin from breaking way on his face at Dean’s widened eyes. They ate breakfast, Dean moaning obscenely around the fork in his mouth, and chatted about anything and everything - except hunting. Sam had made it a goal to make Dean smile as often as he could that day, because it seemed as though the older he got the less he smiled. And Sam wasn’t going to think about the fact that he was planning on leaving for college in a few years and would miss Dean’s twenty-third, twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth, and twenty-sixth birthdays. No, all he wanted was for Dean to have a good day – one that didn’t involve research and shooting practice and physical training and the scent of blood and antiseptic and sulfur.

_Lost in thought and lost in time_

_While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted_

_Outside the rain fell dark and slow_

_While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime_

After breakfast they had gotten dressed and walked out into the snowy environment, planning on walking to town, but instead started a snowball fight like children. It had been the hardest Sam had laughed in so long. They were both freezing afterwards and rushed into town, trying to out-race each other, and quickly grabbed what they needed for lunch and dinner before running back, shucking off their snow boots, coats, and gloves caked with compact snow. Dean had gone over and started to boil some water for their instant hot chocolate. Sam made his way to the bedroom to pull off his freezing clothes and replace them with the lounge pants and AC/DC shirt he had been wearing earlier. Dean shoved a scalding mug of watery hot chocolate in his hand as he walked out, the top of the cup covered in already-melting marshmallows. After Dean had changed as well, the two of them collapsed on the ugly yellow couch right by the fireplace, Dean’s legs thrown over Sam’s lap.

Before he had sat down though, Dean had turned on the crackling radio. There wasn’t a good signal out there, but it was decent enough to hear the static-y lyrics crooning through. The only station that worked, however, was a variety station where songs from every decade were played. When Dean had first turned it on “Love Shack” by the B-52’s was almost over and Sam had laughed at the insulted look on Dean’s face. Nevertheless, bad music was better than nothing and the left it on that station as they sat there together.

A few minutes after they had fallen on the couch, Dean reached to the floor and pulled up two bottles, one of rum and the other of, what Sam guessed to be, cinnamon liqueur.

“When’d you get that?” Sam had asked immediately, his eyes trained on Dean’s hands as he poured a hefty amount of the rum in his cup.

“I picked it up while you were grabbing all your healthy shit,” Dean had grinned, pouring in the cinnamon flavored liqueur next.

“All I did was pick up a head of lettuce and a bag of potatoes, I wouldn’t really consider that “healthy shit,” Dean,” Sam then responded. Dean had lightly kicked at him after that, making Sam almost jump from where he was sitting.

“Give me your cup,” Dean had said as he stretched his hand out.

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Sam remembers saying, “I’m only sixteen.” It had felt like a lame excuse then.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean had scoffed, pushing himself up from where he was sitting to snatch the mug out of Sam’s hands and poured in an equal amount of both alcohols in before handing it back. Sam had inhaled the still hot drink which smelled like a mixture of homemade chocolate chip cookies and gingersnaps. Embarrassingly, Sam was a lightweight. He had been back when he was sixteen and he still was to this very day. Alcohol just wasn’t something he had ever drank often and, even when he did, his lack of body fat really prevented him from holding his liquor, so to speak.

That’s why, after just one glass of what Dean had dubbed El Dorado Hot Chocolate (Sam was almost certain he heard that on one of those food channels he pretended he didn’t watch late at night, but he hadn’t said anything), he had been a little tipsy. Sam remembers the exact moment the alcohol hit his system because he was warm all of a sudden and giggling at all of Dean’s stupid, completely unfunny jokes, and fumbling with his too long, too skinny limbs.

_I took a heavenly ride through our silence_

_I knew the moment had arrived_

_For killing the past and coming back to life_

The one thing he wasn’t certain of, even now, was how he and Dean ended up in the position they had. One minute they had both been laughing, drips of hot chocolate spilling over the rim of their mugs, and the next minute Dean was atop of him, face just inches away. There had been such an intensity in his eyes and Sam distinctly remembers the feel of his chest heaving and brushing Dean’s just slightly. Those plush lips had parted, Dean’s breath ghosting his face, and Sam had watched, entranced, as that pink tongue flicked out to moisten them.

“Tell me you want this,” Dean had whispered, his voice hardly registered over the blood that had been rushing in Sam’s ears. “Or tell me you don’t. But I need to know what you want.”

Though he had tried, the words had gotten stuck in his throat. Sam wanted to tell him that god, yes, he wanted this, and he’d wanted this since before he could remember, but the words wouldn’t come out so he had done the only thing he knew he could to get his point across. He had classed the back of his large hands on the back of Dean’s neck, fingers splaying in the soft, then longer, hairs at the nape, before pulling him down into a heated kiss. And though it had been far from Sam’s first kiss, it was the most memorable because it had been the first time neither he nor Dean seemed to hold back.

Instead of hesitation, uncertainty, and a sense of guilt bleeding through, explosions had flitted behind Sam’s closed eyelids at the feeling of Dean’s warm mouth. The kiss had begun slow, lips almost testing the other’s in hopes of not somehow messing up. Then Sam, filled with a rush of boldness, traced the seam of those exact lips he had spent too much time thinking about in the past, begging for entrance and Dean, never one to deny his brother anything, had given it to him without disinclination. He hadn’t known who had moaned first, but it seemed to break the dam on his own vocal chords as they had separated for air.

“God, Dean,” he remembers choking out, voice rough and breaking in places. Dean hadn’t given him time to elaborate. Instead he had brought hand up between them to cup Sam’s face, callused fingers stroking along his smooth jawline, and leaning back down to capture Sam’s lips once more. This time Sam had skipped the begging and went straight to biting down gently on Dean’s bottom lip, tugging at the flesh and lightly worrying it between his own teeth before soothing the sting. He had been certain it was Dean moaning that time.

When they finally had separated again, their chests were heaving, mouths were panting into one another, and Sam had drank in everything about Dean’s disheveled appearance. His too-green eyes had been heavily lidded, long eyelashes casting shadows on the apples of his cheeks, a flush had worked its way across his face, and those lips were kiss-swollen and dark, sending a rush of heat to the pit of Sam’s stomach. And this song, the same one blaring in the too-crowded house, was the first thing Sam had registered beyond the taste of Dean on his lips.

_I took a heavenly ride through our silence_

_I knew the waiting had begun_

_And headed straight …into the shining sun_

“Sam. Sam. Sam!”

The yelling of his name brought him back to the present and he looked to his side with a startled expression at Jessica.

“Are you alright? You don’t look so good,” she said, hand coming to rest on his arm.

“Yeah,” he answered a bit too quickly. “I’m fine. But I need to head out. I have a lot of work and –“ he saw Jessica’s face drop. “I’m sorry. I really am.” With that he turned and carefully worked his way out of the crowded house, his chest tight with feelings he had tried to forget for some time now.

He and Dean hadn’t spoken in over a year.

It had been a stupid fight that happened when Dean came to visit him and now, for all he knew, Dean wasn’t even alive anymore. He stopped to put his hands on his head, gulping in the fresh air in hopes of evening out his breathing and making the nauseous feeling go away. He wouldn’t think of that fight or of that kiss or of Dean lying dead in a warehouse, rotting away with no one looking for him and –

Sam heaved on the sidewalk.

“Sam! Dude!” Footsteps were approaching him quickly and he leaned up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at Brady who had followed him out. “What’s up with you?”

“I need you to call this number,” Sam answered immediately. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and flipped it open to clicked on Dean’s last known phone number.

“What?” Brady asked incredulously. “You have the number right there, why do I have to –“

“Please,” Sam begged. “I can’t explain…just…please.” Brady pursed his lips, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, but he got his phone out anyway and started typing in the digits. Sam listened to every beep that sounded with each button and, as Brady was double-checking the number, he said, “Put it on speaker.” The next thing he knew there was a ringing sounding out loud and Sam felt nauseous again at the thought of Dean not answering, but also felt nauseous at the thought of Dean actually answering.

Three full rings reverberated and Sam was certain there would be no answer. But he was wrong, because in the middle of the fourth ring there was a click.

“This is Dean,” a low voice let out, the quality grainy and echoing, as though in a tunnel and Sam gasped. Brady was watching him with intense eyes, a strange knowing look within them, but Sam couldn’t get caught up in that. “Hello? Anyone there?” Dean’s voices sounded out again. Sam quickly hit the end button and shoved the phone back into Brady’s hands.

“Where are you going?” Brady called after him for Sam turned around and started walking away again.

“Home.”

He had squashed down those feelings once more, the nausea gone the moment Dean answered, and he made it a point to repeatedly tell himself as he walked in the cool night air of California that he would do his best to forget.

He would try and forget his training, his knowledge that monsters exist, that he didn’t come from a “normal” family, and, most of all, he would do his best to forget what he felt for Dean and not let something as simple as song send him into a panic.

Tomorrow he’d call Jessica Moore and ask her out for coffee. That was at least one step in the right direction.


End file.
